


crazyhead

by theheartchoice



Category: Crazyhead (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Canon-Typical Violence, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Demon Castiel (Supernatural), Demons, Horror, Human Dean Winchester, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV Alternating, POV Charlie Bradbury, POV Dean Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Seer Charlie Bradbury - Freeform, Seer Dean Winchester, Strangers to Lovers, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25086391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartchoice/pseuds/theheartchoice
Summary: Dean sees things, sometimes. He thought he was just losing his mind but apparently he's not, and he's not the only one who sees what he sees. Knowing his hallucinations are real isn't comforting, but knowing he's not alone is. Then there's the hot guy in the leather jacket who might be stalking him—which would be disturbing enough for a non-cursed person so of freakin' course the dude's face shifts into crazy just like the others.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	crazyhead

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the first episode of _Crazyhead_. 

"This is the next step, Dean. We've been gradually reducing your dose, and you've been doing well." 

"Yeah, but.. no meds at all? That could make things worse, right? The hallucinations—" 

"—May not return. You haven't had any in almost two months and you've shown no signs of an ongoing condition. The medication seems to have done its job. This happens sometimes." 

"So, your diagnosis is _temporary insanity_? That's what you're goin' with?" 

Chuck leans forward in his chair, hands folded over Dean's file as he regards him steadily. He's not the first patient to struggle with this affliction, but time—and drugs—do heal many a-cracked psyche. "This is a good thing, Dean. You're better." With a tight smile that's half bedside-manner (for Dean's sake) and half relief (for his own sake, knowing that things have improved instead of barrelling off in the other direction; that happens sometimes, too) he moves on to the next matter at hand. "Now, you might experience some side effects." 

"Side effects?" 

"From ceasing the medication altogether. Over the next two to three weeks you may experience headaches and dizziness, insomnia and increased thirst. There's also the possibility of diarrhoea. Oh, and you may be lethargic throughout the day," he adds, tapping his notes. 

"Wait—diarrhoea?" 

"Well, the range and severity of the side effects do vary from person to person."

"So, not _crazy,_ but I might _shit_ myself?" 

"It's possible." 

"Great." 

* * *

The music is loud and kind of obnoxious, definitely not her go-to jam, but she doesn't let it distract her from locating the target. Even the flashing lights and crowd of dancing bodies can't conceal him— _it_ —weaving through the dancefloor toward the back of the club. 

She needs cover to get closer without being spotted—and the brunette in the retro jumpsuit who walks by has perfect timing. "Hey—" she trails her hand down the brunette's arm, turning her around, "wanna dance?" She leads them toward the edge of the crowd, moving in some approximation of rhythm, and the brunette goes willingly. 

It's a shame, really. It's been a while since she danced with anyone let alone a foxy lady giving her _the look_. But (sometimes unfortunately) duty comes first. 

She spins out and away but loses her bearings, brushing by a girl whose long blonde hair smells like lilies and leather, which is probably thanks in part to the guy next to her—who she almost takes out at the knees, but catches her footing just in time and moves to follow the target out the back exit. 

The alley is empty and smells vaguely of urine and the promise of rain. A visual sweep towards the road reveals nothing. Hand on the collapsed baton in her jacket she moves to inspect the rest of the alley where it bends around the building—and gets knocked on her ass, like a _chump_. 

"Charlie." 

_Fuck_. 

* * *

"I didn't know they were a thing." 

Dean glances back over his shoulder to where Aaron nudged his chin.

Jo's in Michael's personal space now, toying with his buttons as she leans against the bar, all flirty smiles and swishes of freshly washed hair— _If I'm gonna try my hand with him it's gonna be my best hand, Dean. That means washing the diner stank out of my hair_. She could do so much better than that douchebag.

"Not yet," he mutters into his drink. _Not ever_ , he silently hopes, but it's no use. Jo does whatever—and whoever—she wants. Dean loves that about her, her fearlessness, but sometimes she can be just plain reckless. Or blind to the downsides. 

"Didn't he just get back?" says Aaron. "He was like, backpacking through Europe, or something? Dude's probably a petri-dish of STDs." 

"You say that like he hasn't been in your spank-bank since high school, man." 

"Yeah, but that's fantasy versus reality. I don't actually wanna screw the guy." 

"No, just imagine him screwing you while you jerk off into your hand." 

"Hey—If I got a dick in one hand and a joint in the other? I'm a happy boy. You should try it sometime." 

Aaron turns to palm some goods off to a passing client leaving Dean to try and remember the last time he even got close to getting laid. Rhonda, Lee, Cassie, Lisa, Lee again, Victor, Jamie.. He's got a decent catalogue to pull from if he wanted to relive some of his greatest hits alone with himself, but there hasn't really been anyone since the hallucinations started. And he hasn't been able to keep it up on his meds, not that he's really wanted to, either. 

Six months ago he was eyeing multiple possibilities on a night out like this, but it's been hard to see a pretty face and think positively sexy thoughts knowing it could all turn into a B-grade horror scene at any moment. 

But now that he's off his meds, who knows? Maybe he really is cured, or whatever. One thing's for sure he's noticing those pretty faces again, and his stomach doesn't dip in dread like it used to. 

Through the sea of writhing bodies there's a stationary figure, someone looking his way from across the dancefloor. Can't see much from this far, but dark sexhair, a stubbled jaw, and eyes so blue they practically glow—and they're fixed on _Dean_ —are all winning attributes. A wide collar of black leather is the only other part of him visible through the crowd. It looks like the kind of thing bikers would wear (which would explain the wild hair). 

Something stirs in Dean, and it's not dread. 

"Want me to hook you up?" 

Aaron's voice cuts through his stare-fest and Dean jerks to meet his eye. "Nah, man. I'm good." He can feel a headache pushing behind his eyes and his skin's starting to heat up uncomfortably. He wore his own leather jacket, which wasn't the smartest clothing choice for a place like this. The whole night was probably a dumb idea 'cause now that he's drug-free he's gotta worry about those damn side effects. _Shit_ , is he really gonna mess his jeans, too? 

"You sure?" says Aaron. "Future 'friends rates', and all that. And I'd be happy to give you the first taste for free."

" _Happy_?" Dean's eyebrows jump, not that he's surprised. He is a little dizzy though, and he felt pretty drained before they even made it to the club. This song and dance with Aaron isn't something he enjoys on a good day and if he lets it drag on any further he's gonna get cranky and lash out. The guy can't seem to take a hint but he's still a friend, sort of, and he doesn't deserve to deal with Dean's crap. 

"You could crash at mine, y'know. I don't think Jo's gonna need a ride home tonight." 

Another glance in Jo's direction says he's probably right, but Dean's a good friend who checks-in just in case. Plus, he could use some water and fresh air. "'Nother time, maybe." He leaves Aaron to call out more-than-friendly additions to his offer over the music as he squeezes passed huddles of people to get to the bar, feeling more light-headed than he realised now that he's moving. 

"I'm going to a sleepover," Jo says, a little too much pep to her as she turns away from Michael, bumping Dean's shoulder where he's hunched at the bar. 

He rubs at his temple, wishing he'd brought some Advil, and flicks her an unimpressed glare. She grins and punches him lightly in the arm, signalling the barman for another round. 

"What about you? Anyone catch your eye?" 

Glancing to the other side of the room where he'd seen Sexy Biker Dude proves pointless; the guy's gone, and even without his headache Dean doesn't know if it'd be worth the effort to get him into bed. It's too soon. He hasn't touched himself in weeks, hasn't cum in almost two months (unless you count nocturnal emissions). "Well, I do see a five-foot, cute-as-a-button dark-haired fella arriving at my door in the near future." 

It's Jo's turn to look unimpressed. "Seriously? Greasy takeout and, what—more marathoning _Dr. Sexy?_ It's Saturday night, Dean. It's party night. Don't make me get you blacklisted." 

The dead seriousness with which she says _it's party night_ makes him crack a smile. "It's always a party with _Dr. Sexy M.D._ in the house," he winks, but she knows the act, knows him too damn well. Her eyes go soft with worry. 

"Baby steps?" 

He nods, grabbing his water from the bar and sliding her a tired smile. "Yeah. 'Sides, I don't think Kevin would appreciate you cutting off his best customer. I'm a handsome tipper." 

"Yeah, yeah. Hey—" her hand closes loosely around his arm, tugging him to make sure he meets her eye. "I'm proud of you." 

The sentiment warms his chest like a real damn hug and he's gotta resist the urge to gather her up in his arms. "Thanks." His voice scratches so he takes a swig of water to distract them both and give him an out from talking about it anymore. She gets it, he knows, and she pats his arm and reaches for her beer. 

Someone trips over behind them, knocking against his legs, but they find their footing by the time he turns around, red hair slipping between bodies toward the back of the club. Another face in the crowd catches his eye though, another stranger looking right at him. Scrawny guy, plain face, nothin' memorable like Sexy Biker Dude, although he kinda looks like Boom Boom Mancini in his heydey—until the shadows shift and the light sinks into hollows of burned-out flesh, embers dying beneath greyed skin and sunken, truly dead eyes feel like they're trying to extinguish his freakin' soul from ten feet away. 

Definitely not a sight he wants to remember but apparently not one he can avoid. 

So much for being cured. 

One blink and the nightmare face is gone—so is the guy.

Okay, so the meds totally worked and he's gonna need a long-term refill. Good for his head, not-so-good for his downstairs brain. Maybe he can try a different dosage, or— _fuck_ —maybe get on something that'll let him want-and-be-able-to get off? But that's tomorrow's problem. Right now his headache's having a growth spurt, the room's starting to spin at the edges, and he's breaking out in a sweat. 

He needs some air. 

The padded double doors muffle the techno-treble as the bass beats out vibrations into the alley. It's quieter out here, but not silent. Silence would be creepy. The music grounds him, lets him know he's not entirely alone. But when he needs to breathe it's better to be on his own, better to try and clear this crap from his head without fearing he'll see it again. 

No people means no visions. No visions means he gets to hold onto the threads of his sanity with a firmer grip. 

He sips his water and leans back against the cool brick exterior of the building. The night air is crisp and helps numb his headache. And it's not exactly fresh but the breeze is welcome relief against his heated skin. There's graffiti all around him, every inch of the alley painted over and made into something new. The glow from a streetlamp reaches far enough down to illuminate parts of the wall in front of him. There's a mural of a forest with a crater in the middle, trees knocked down around it. In the centre of the crater is a single white flower reaching up to the sky, petals like a star.

It looks kinda familiar, but generic. Not that he knows anything about flowers, but their house back in Lawrence had a garden and his mom had a green thumb—or tried to, from what he remembers. Maybe she planted something like it. He used to play outside when she watered the flowerbeds, run his hands through the sprinkles from the watering-can. Long time ago now, but it's a good memory and it helps calm him a little more. 

Something clatters 'round the corner making his heart skip and his calm ebb. It could be nothing, just a rat sniffing for crumbs in the trash. Or it could be something. Could be someone in trouble—passed out or strung out or hurt, or worse. 

Dean's no wilting flower. He went all-state with the wrestling team his junior year, John taught him and Sam all all those Marine Corps combat tricks, and thanks to his healthy love of Westerns Dean's a self-taught wrangler with any makeshift lasso. 

He can't see anyone as he peers around the corner, but it's dark. Steam from a grated vent rises at the mouth of the alley where a busted streetlamp flickers, but still no one. He leans further out, trying to see passed the dumpster.. and that _might_ be a body on the ground? 

Feet moving before he decides to risk it, he gets a better view of the scene in the scant light. It definitely looks like a body sprawled out on the pavement and not moving. A noise behind has him whipping back 'round before he can think it's a bad idea. 

Someone stands— _fuckin' looms_ —in the shadows by the mural. Dean's throat works to find his voice, to threaten something that'll scare the guy off or at least make him hesitate before he attacks. Odds are he's the one responsible for the body on the ground and he probably doesn't wanna get caught, so he's either gonna run or fight. 

.. _no wilting flower..not a wilting fuckin' flower_..

Dean's heart rate kicks up, his head feeling lighter and arms gone weak as his hands fight to curl into fists. Breaths come shallow and ragged, and of all the times to get whammied by a bunch of drug-free side effects this is some black-cats-under-ladders bullshit bad luck. 

_Hey, asshole_ —it's on the tip of his tongue when the guy steps forward into a faint beam of light and Dean squares up, hoping like hell he can get a few hits in before he goes down. Then he recognises the face and his blood runs cold, skin prickling as a tremor runs down his spine. It's the guy from inside, the one whose face went all Hell-A-Vision on him. 

.. _Calm the fuck down, dude—it WASN'T REAL..it's not real_.. 

But reality shifts again and the asshole turns back into a walking nightmare. It looks pretty goddamn real, always has. Vivid. Just as real-but-not-real as every other hallucination he's had—but hasn't had in months. Now it's a shock to the system. He's frozen in place. 

"You _see_ me." 

That a question? With a voice garbled in hellfire it's hard to tell. But hallucination or not this guy still hurt someone an—and now he's coming at Dean. 

His boots scuff backward, trying to keep distance between them, but his fists won't even budge to defend or attack. Ashen, mummified hands reach for him—and he overbalances, heel snagging on a dip in the asphalt. He goes down. 

It shouldn't matter—he didn't fall hard and he could use this moment to lower the guy's defences, but fear grips him. His heart's trying to beat out of his chest and his lungs ache—he almost can't breathe at all—and his muscles seize up. 

He's frozen again. Useless. If this panic attack doesn't kill him— _can they kill you?_ —this guy just might. Dean's in for somethin' bloody as the guy— _skinny, not much meat on him let alone muscle—_ hauls him up by the collar and slams a fist across his jaw. 

And again. 

And a few more times—his mouth, his eye, his noise—Dean's face bruises and splits under the assault and he can't even catch a breath. 

This isn't the first beating he's taken, and he's got enough experience to know a guy who'd barely weigh a buck wet doesn't land punches like this unless he's on somethin'—somethin' that's got him amped up and powered up enough to do the same kinda damage a guy three times his size could do without breakin' a sweat. 

He could take the guy out with one shove but he can't move. Can't even open his eyes—even if one wasn't swelling up fast and sealing itself shut—'cos he doesn't want to see _that face_ up close. He just needs to breathe, but he's only wheezing through the blood, lungs constricting without mercy. 

Without these freakin' hallucinations and the side effects from those meds he'd be holding his own right now. As things are he's got next to no chance. 

Another hit lands—something cracks under the force of it—and the sensation obscures everything, the pressure still building in his chest overshadowed by the pain taking front and centre. Something hard collides with his head from one second to the next, but it doesn't hurt. Maybe he's reached some terminal velocity of pain where another blow just doesn't make a damn bit of difference.

His existence becomes a storm of sensation—pain ebbing and rising, numbness a hazy backdrop to it like stormclouds muting the sky until the lightning strikes. His body rolls— _is rolled?_ —and his airways clear with the new angle. Blood trickles sideways against gravity from his mouth and nose and hairline.. _huh_. He's on the ground, lying on his side. The pressure in his chest lessens, and lessens.. until he's no longer on the edge of blacking out. His lungs draw in quick shallow breaths that gradually deepen and slow, and the damage done to his face makes itself known again as thunder rumbles overhead. 

In the background of everything he notes the beating has stopped, which probably means he's been dealt the final blow, but if the guy's done with him.. what's that sound? It's another beating— _someone else fighting?_ It sounds far away but gets clearer as he tries to focus, tries to breathe deeper and unscrew his eyes—just the one, actually. 

There's movement along the alley. Everything is blurry from almost passing out, from the blood and sweat tainting the scene that swims in his vision, but he can make out what looks like two people goin' at it. Sounds like.. like.. a _chick_? Yeah, and she's tellin' the guy off as she kicks his ass. 

His less-fucked-up eye adjusts to the low light in time to catch a flash of red hair beneath the streetlamp as she disappears 'round the corner. She's gone, and so is the body on the ground— _was that her?_ Nightmare Mancini took off too, and Dean’s whole being relaxes into the pavement. 

The world spins. Feels like he's miles high and fallin' fast, gonna be a meat pancake any second, but.. no. The ground's already under him, hard and cold. He claws at it, feels like he's about to hurl—and somethin' comes up and out, makes a puddle under his chin. Acid and blood lingers on his tongue, the stench of the nearby dumpster filling his nostrils. 

Footfalls pound down the alley towards him—someone running, calling out for help. There's already movement above him, a hand on his shoulder, and somethin' that sounds like, _you're going to be fine_. He doesn't believe it, but he's not dead yet, so. 

The sky rumbles again, fat drops of rain slipping down his neck. More voices—they sound further away, or maybe that's just him. He can breathe, but his headache from earlier has nothin' on the one pushing at his skull now. He's gonna blackout for real this time.

The last thing he sees through bad one eye in the dark, is the painted mural on the alley wall. The half-light spilling out from the club illuminates that little flower as it reaches up through the dirt towards the sun. His face drops to the ground and he succumbs to the darkness. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡ [story link on tumblr](https://theheartchoice.tumblr.com/post/623488279441031168/crazyhead-destiel-au-moodboard) ♡
> 
> I started watching _Crazyhead_ the other night (not sure if I'll keep watching) and this Dean/Cas version just wrote itself. I almost wrote demon!Dean/seer!Cas (which would also be awesome) but I like the dynamic I went with. Have you guys seen the show? My take is a little different because it had to feel right for our boys. This got longer than I expected so I'm posting the first bit now. It'll probably be 3 chapters, maybe 4. I'm still deciding where I want it to end, so we'll see! 😉
> 
> Apologies to folks waiting for [**HCTS**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24437572/) to update. I have no excuse except— * _gestures at Life_ *. It felt good to write out this AU, and also to make some [Dean t-shirt manips over on tumblr](https://theheartchoice.tumblr.com/tagged/mymanips). I'll probably need to work on some fluff after this so I hope to polish up Chapter 3 (and finish Chapter 4) of HCTS very soon. Come yell at me on tumblr anytime. Stay safe lovelies. 💕


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